“Wright,” he murmured, trying to make them understand that he had to go back.
The Colonel leaned over him and gripped his shoulders, pressing him down when he tried to sit. “Hold on, Chandler. We’ve sent for a stretcher.”
“O…O’Neil?”
“Sorry, son. He didn’t make it.”
No! No…
“No!”
Pale moonlight filtered through the surrounding trees into the dormered windows, illuminating the open loft. Chloe had left the window panes open to the fragrant spring air and watched the ever-changing pattern of moon-shadowed leaves dance across her ceiling. Branches from the nearby tree tapped against the window pane in a soft night music.
She punched her pillows again and sat up. She couldn’t sleep for thoughts of Mr. Rush. He mostly varied between abrupt and just plain rude, but in the woods tonight, he’d been almost playful. She liked that man best, when his eyes were crinkled at the corners with a laugh and a devilish smile on his face. Oh, if he could only be that way more often! And if only he could be handsome and not a common gamekeeper.
Something was troubling him—something more than her ransom. She was perceptive enough to know that, and also to know that he was not the sort to talk about his troubles.
She sighed and plucked at the blue silk ribbon of her best nightgown, a part of her trousseau that her betrothed would never see because there would never be a wedding night. Staring out at the moon, she whispered, “Oh, Lord, I’ve made such a dreadful mess of things. I cannot trust myself anymore. Please, guide me to thy will.”
A frightful racket from below brought her bolt upright again. She could swear she heard Mr. Rush shouting “No!” at the top of his lungs, followed by the clamor of things falling or being knocked over. Had they been found out? Were they being robbed?
She grabbed the pewter candleholder as she popped out of bed, then paused at the top of the hatch, trying to see below without betraying herself. The noise had stopped, but she could hear someone breathing heavily. Had Mr. Rush been injured? When there was no further noise, she backed silently down the ladder, still clutching the candleholder.
The banked fire cast a reddish glow through the single room and she saw Mr. Rush, his bare feet and legs sticking out below the hem of a dressing robe, pouring wine into a glass he held with a shaking hand.
Her heart still racing with excitement, she dropped her arm to her side and exhaled a deep sigh of relief. She liked to think she’d be fierce enough to hit someone over the head, but she couldn’t be certain.
Mr. Rush turned at the sound of her sigh. There was a wild, haggard look in his eyes and his hand still shook as he waved her back. “Sorry I woke you, Miss Faraday. Go back to bed. All is well.”
“You? That din was you?” She laughed and put the candlestick on the table. “Heavens, I was terrified! Did you lose your bearings on your way to the privy?”
He sat and held his glass with both hands as he guided it to his mouth. Three gulps later, he focused on her again. “Wasn’t going to the privy.”
She stood across from him and studied his face. He wouldn’t meet her eyes and, closer, his face looked more ravaged than haggard. In fact, he looked the way she felt after an especially vivid nightmare. She suspected he could use someone to keep him company. “Ghosts?” she asked.
“In more ways than you could possibly imagine, Miss Faraday.” Steadier now, he drank again.
She nodded and refilled his glass. “I have nightmares, too. Does the wine help?”
“Smooths the ragged edges,” he admitted.
“I shall remember that.” She smiled, trying to diffuse the tension. She took another glass from the cupboard, sat across from him and poured herself half a measure. “I think I could use some to calm my nerves. I’m still feeling unsettled.”
He looked up at her. “I prefer brandy or whiskey. In truth, Miss Faraday, even rotgut would help.”
“Since I do not have access to rotgut, I shall have to content myself with wine.”
His lips curved up in a tiny smile. It was a start. She took a small sip and closed her eyes to savor the warmth that seeped downward. When she opened them again, he was staring at her, an odd expression on his face.
“Does it help, Miss Faraday?”
“Yes, it does.” She sighed and sat back in her chair. “What do you dream about, sir?”
“Not dreams as much as memories.”
“Oh!” The thought sobered her. Memories bad enough to cause him to cry out in the night and require alcohol to calm must be very bad, indeed. “Will you tell me about them?”
He glanced away from her and took another drink. “That tale is not fit for your ears.”
“Try me, sir.”
He shook his head and would not look at her.
She remembered how he had induced her to tell why she didn’t want to marry. “Think of me as an opportunity not to be missed, Mr. Rush.”
A long moment passed while he stroked the rim of his glass. Finally, he lifted his chin and looked at her. “Feel free to stop me when you’ve heard enough, Miss Faraday.”
When he began, Chloe listened calmly, trying to imagine the horror of war that so many young men experienced in recent years. At times it had seemed that half the eligible young men in Britain had been sent to exotic locations, but she had never pondered what they might be going through, or how deeply they might have suffered. The lump in her throat grew thicker as Mr. Rush described the hail of gunfire and the cannon blasts that had left them nearly deaf for days on end. She laughed when he told her stories of his best friends and the jokes they’d played on one another.
And when his voice grew low and dark, she listened to what he didn’t say and knew there was much he hadn’t told her. At last, he poured another glass of wine and stared blindly into the kitchen fireplace, falling silent.
She did not like to see him in such a state and wished she could do something for him, something to take the pain away, or to help him forget. When George had made her talk about her dreams, they had lost their power over her, as if the act of voicing them had somehow vanquished them. Perhaps she could do the same for him.
She reached across the table and lay her hand on his arm. “Memories to treasure, Mr. Rush, but you have not told me about your dream tonight, or why it made your hands shake and—”
He tossed off the rest of his wine and stood. The knuckles of his hands turned white as he gripped the back of his chair. “Leave it alone, Miss Faraday.”
She stood, too, feeling helpless but knowing if she did not make him talk this time, she would not have another chance. “I want to help you, Mr. Rush. I want to make those dreams go away.”
He began pacing, staring at the floor, ignoring the uneven gait that must be causing him pain. “The fighting was fierce that night. We lost three-quarters of our men in the first half hour. Then Colonel Aldrich ordered us to storm the walls. He said it was our only chance. I tried to warn him… The few of us who made it that far fought until our ammunition gave out. The French were firing straight down on us and pouring boiling tar over the ramparts.
“By the time the command sounded the retreat, there were damn few of us left. I think we’d all been wounded, but O’Neil was the worst. I dragged him with me, hoping to get to the trenches in the dark and before the French regrouped. They fired grapeshot on us. The doctors said that’s what tore my leg open, but that part is a blur. Then a blast set the supply wagon on fire and we were like paper targets. Later, they told me O’Neil was dead even before I got him back to our lines.
“I tried to go back for Wright, but…I don’t remember anything after…the doctors trying to save my leg. By the time the fever broke, I was aboard a ship bound for Dover.”
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered. “I wish there were something I could do to help.”
His eyes were bleak when they met hers. “I don’t want your pity,” he said. “But if you want to help, then help me make the dreams go away, if o
nly for tonight.”
She couldn’t bear his desolation. “Anything, Mr. Rush.”
He pushed his chair aside, knocking it to the floor. Before she knew what he was about, he had pulled her into his arms. “Lie with me, Chloe,” he murmured against her lips. “Let me make love to you. Let me lose myself in you. Let me pretend, for a moment, that you love me and want me. Lie to me, Chloe.”
His intensity startled her, and her own treacherous heart betrayed her, beating as wildly as his and urging her to accept his terms. “I cannot,” she sighed.
“You can. Say yes. Just the single word. I will do the rest, Chloe, and we shall both find sweet oblivion in that word.”
Oh, all she could think about was the feel of his lips on hers and the shocking way his tongue drew forth a wild yearning. How could she want this so much when she knew that whatever lay at the end of it had brought her friends to tears? And how could something so delightful, so compelling, cause tears?
He must have read her moan as acceptance, because he swept her up and carried her to his room, never breaking the kiss. She wanted to protest, to stop him, but instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and fell deeply into a passionate fog.
He pulled the ribbon at the neckline of her nightgown, and pushed it down over her shoulders. His hands were callused and rough but his touch was gentle as he traced a line from her shoulder blade down to her breasts. Her heartbeat accelerated and she struggled to find her voice, but his mouth was still on hers, still claiming something of her soul.
Then he pushed her nightgown lower and touched her almost reverently. One finger circled her areola and it firmed to his touch. Little tingles of pleasure coursed through her and she arched to him. He moaned and relinquished her lips to blaze a path down her throat to that firmed peak. When he took it in his mouth, the sensations made her gasp. Her nerves—her whole body—was quivering with anticipation of…what?
He lifted her nightgown now and moved lower, circling her navel with his tongue as he held her hips steady. “Chloe…Chloe,” he moaned, “I knew you would be my salvation.”
Her middle burned and the shock of his words recalled her to her senses. His salvation? How could that be? She caught his dark hair between her fingers and lifted his head to look down into his ruined face. Hunger, a dark desperation, and a flicker of hope burned in his eyes. And yet…
And yet, she could not be what he wanted her to be. She could not surrender herself to a disfigured, lame gamekeeper. Her life would be ruined and her future forfeit. Oh, but he was so…so strangely beautiful. So strong, yet so touchingly vulnerable. She wanted to tell him so. Wanted to say something that would banish the hurt. But she realized that she didn’t even know his given name. For all their familiarity, he was a virtual stranger to her. Three days she’d known him, and in three more, she’d be gone. And at this moment—nearly naked in his arms—she could not call him by name. The shock of that simple fact brought her scrambling to her feet.
“No!” she gasped, leaving him empty-armed and dazed.
He reached out for her. “Chloe, I—”
“No,” she repeated, holding back a sob as she rearranged her nightgown and tied the blue silk ribbon. “For all that I’ve run away, I am still engaged to be married. And I do not even know your name, sir.”
“An—”
She held up her hand, palm outward, as she backed toward the door. “No! I do not want to hear it! You will seduce me if I do.”
“Name be damned! You know all you need to know, Chloe Faraday. You know me for the man I am, regardless of my name.”
He was wrong. She didn’t know him. She didn’t know who he was at his very core. She didn’t know if he would be cruel once he had seduced her. She didn’t know if he would make her cry as her friends had cried. And she didn’t know if he would tire of her in a month, or a season, or a year. Tears filled her eyes as she backed from his room and ran for the ladder.
Anthony stood and staggered to the washstand, cursing under his breath. Damn! He hadn’t meant things to go so far. He hadn’t meant to get so lost in her that he lost himself, too. A mere hour of talking and laughing together without suspicion or rancor, and he’d fallen in love with her all over again. Now he recalled how she’d managed to capture him so completely in the space of a dance and a cup of punch two years ago. Chloe was still that woman beneath the surface.
But there was something else beneath the surface. Something deeply hidden that troubled Chloe Faraday, and thus troubled him. He’d commanded enough men to know when someone was hiding something. And he’d listened to enough complaints to know when there was something not being spoken aloud.
The water in the pitcher was cold as he poured it into the basin and groped for a facecloth. He wondered if whatever fears or misgivings she’d developed regarding marriage had come in the interim, or if they’d been with her since childhood. She’d hinted that there were “certain sensibilities” that a man couldn’t understand. He’d puzzled this statement, and wondered if it referred to a fear of marital intimacy. Nothing could cure that fear but the act itself.
Then she’d said she did not want to marry except for affection. He could unquestionably offer her passion, and his affection was rapidly building. There were so many endearing things about her, even when she was being prickly and trying to sabotage him. Yes, Chloe would be easy to love.
Her confession that she couldn’t marry a stranger was more difficult to fix. He wasn’t a stranger any longer, but he could hardly tell her that. In fact, that particular confession was growing more difficult by the hour. She was bound to resent him and her brother for their scheme. She would feel as if she’d been tricked—be embarrassed at best, humiliated at worst, and certainly angry and betrayed.
No, those reasons were all sufficient to themselves to make a woman of Chloe’s spirit and intelligence shy of marriage. But there was something else eroding her trust. Something she couldn’t bring herself to talk about. And that secret, he suspected, was the real reason she did not want to marry.
Anthony splashed the cold water from the basin on his face, hoping to cool his passions and clear his head. He still ached with wanting her. As he straightened, he caught his reflection in the mirror. Good God! No wonder she’d run. How could she ever love that face? How could she ever resign herself to a lifetime of looking at him across a table, of watching other women dance with their husbands while she stood on the sidelines with a cripple?
Risk and reward. Where had it gone wrong?
Chapter Seven
Morning was just beginning to cast sunbeams through the windows when Chloe turned the muffins out onto a dish towel to cool. She’d been up for hours. She couldn’t sleep, couldn’t even think straight. For a moment last night, she had forgotten her troubles and gotten lost in Mr. Rush’s stories. He’d become so real to her, and so very appealing. She found that she liked the man, and worse, that she wanted his kisses and reveled in his touch. How would she ever explain a man like Mr. Rush to her stepfather? Impossible. In fact, the entire situation was impossible.
She opened the door of the warming oven built into the wall beside the fireplace. The bacon and griddle cakes were still warm but they’d be drying out soon. There must be something more for her to do so she wouldn’t have to think. Oh, because when she thought…
A noise from the bedroom alerted her that Mr. Rush had risen. As she turned to put the teapot on the table, he appeared in his doorway, a dark stubble covering his jaw and his hair tousled from his pillow. His blue work shirt was open, revealing his bare chest, and the sight of it made her heart leap. She tried not to stare, but he was so enthralling that she couldn’t help herself.
He seemed surprised to see her and oblivious to her reaction. “Miss Faraday, you are up early.”
It was impossible to think straight when faced with that chest. She blinked and turned back to the fireplace. “I couldn’t sleep,” she murmured.
“About last night—I regret my behavior. I
t won’t happen again.”
Oddly, she wasn’t certain how she felt about that. She put the griddlecakes and bacon on the table. If she looked at him, would he see her disappointment? “I accept an equal measure of responsibility, sir. I was hardly…unwilling.”
In the end, his silence coaxed her gaze up to meet his. He was watching her with something akin to amazement. “I am relieved to hear that,” he said with a small smile. “I feared I had misread you.”
Her cheeks burned and he began buttoning his shirt. She turned away, pretending to fetch jam and butter from the larder. “But it must never happen again. I may not like it, but I am engaged to be married come Saturday morning.”
She heard his chair scrape back as he sat. “Have you decided to go through with the marriage, then?”
She didn’t answer. She honestly didn’t know what she was going to do. Everything had been so clear back in Litchfield, and now she couldn’t sort her feelings out. Duty urged her home to honor her commitment. Oh, but her heart was still mutinous!
She sighed as she sat and looked down at her plate. The only thing that was certain now was that Steppapa would punish her no matter what she did. She would wear black and blue instead of white on her wedding day. And maybe marriage would be a kinder fate than her stepfather. She suspected that was why George had urged her to marry anyway.
“I cannot,” she said at last. No matter what Steppapa did to her, it was likely better treatment than she could expect from a stranger. Her stepfather could be kind, if he chose, and if he was not in one of his rages.
“Why, Chloe?”
That deep compelling voice when he said her name caused a shiver to tingle up her spine. Why? Very simply, because she was afraid of what she might receive at the hands of her husband. “Have you heard it said, Mr. Rush, that it is better to deal with the devil you know than the devil you don’t?”
“What devil? Are you in some sort of trouble?”
“I am always in some sort of trouble. Just ask George or Steppapa.”
Broken Vows, Mended Hearts: A Bouquet of ThistlesPaying the PiperBattle-Torn Bride Page 13